To Dance Again
by juliasejanus
Summary: AU Post Scorpia Rising. Follows on from Lost Boy and Dancer . The dancer Sasha Makarov, formerly known as Alex Rider, is now 21 and alone. Mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

Sasha decided he hated airports, he was only waiting in arrivals at Terminal 3 at Heathrow, but he needed a cigarette and a drink. He wondered what Vladimir would say about falling of the wagon, but he no longer wanted to be clean, to dance or do anything, well apart from drink. It had been over 14 hours since his last and he needed the oblivion that alcohol offered. He looked at the board the United Airlines Flight from Newark had landed 23 minutes ago, he was sober and the devastation of the past week was creeping across his consciousness, worse than the throbbing ache of his head, the dryness in his mouth and the weariness of his soul. Six days, 10 hours and 14 minutes ago his Manfred, the love of his life had died and now he was a spectator to his own life. Bernd and Katya Schnagel were living in Manfred's Deptford home, arranging the funeral, the dispersal of the choreographer's estate and raking over the ashes of Sasha's life. He was Manfred's significant other but that did not matter anymore, in the terms of the law he was nobody, not a partner, not family. Manfred had been his world and he had the impression the Schnagel's dismissed his grief because of his youth.

The tall, wiry blond man shifted on his feet, and waited for his unofficial family to arrive. God, Piotr was now seven and Gregori, five. Alex had not seen Vladimir, Luci and the boys for over a year since his last visit home, to New York. They had traveled the ocean to comfort the lost boy they had opened their home to four years ago. It was not fair, Manfred had only been 56, far too young. They should have had years and years of happiness yet. Sasha rubbed the stubble on his face. He did not feel 21, but a million years old.

Piotr broke into a run when they came through the doors flinging himself at Sasha closely followed by Gregori. Luci walked up and Sasha noted the changes to her thin frame, new life, another child due in five months he would guess. Sasha then suddenly thought of the future, and hoped it was a baby girl. Vladimir stopped and joined in hugging Maria's boy and his two sons.

No words were spoken as Luci moved forward to kiss the cuckoo, whom she had grown to love. Sasha looked awful. As the group walked to the car park, Vladimir spoke in low murmur to the young dancer. "So your drinking again. I would in your shoes. You are coming home with us and getting your act together. No arguments. You will get through this or do you need rehab?"

Sasha smirked and swallowed the bark of laughter, "I prefer cold turkey. No alcohol for 14 hours now. OK to drive and everything." The only reason he'd stopped drinking was to pick up the closest thing he had to family, those who cared enough to share his grief.

The young man unlocked the battered 20 year old range rover, putting the luggage in the boot as Luci managed to belt in the kids and herself into the back. Vladimir climbed into the passenger seat and noted the car was clean inside, very clean. He guessed cleaned this very morning.

Sasha drove east into central London to Chelsea , to a house recently vacated after being rented for six years, Ian Rider's house at 12 Cheyne Walk. It was now furnished in a mix of junk shop bargains, Ikea eclectic and the few items that had been in storage since June 2002. Aleksandr 'Sasha' Makarov, formerly Alex Rider had inherited a fair portfolio of investments, this house and a few Rider family heirlooms on his 21st birthday, seven months previously. Sasha had been decorating and renovating the house in the intervening months between class, practice and shows. The major change had been the converting of Ian's former office in the attic into a practice room, with bar, decent sound system and mirrors. Manfred's house in Deptford had become the base for the miss-match of dancers training, learning and creating with Manfred, his untimely death had thrown a spanner in the works of the new larger company the German had started to assemble with more intricate works planned, a whole ballet being rehearsed.

Sasha showed the boys into their room, Vladimir and Luci into the master bedroom which had an en-suite, as Alex had moved his meagre belongings into the box room on the second floor. The young dancer then went downstairs to start to cook up a basic meal, but first he poured himself a large glass of vodka.

The meal was spaghetti Puttenesca, salad and bread. There was ice cream and brownies for desert. There were a few bottles of wine in the house, for guests, but Vladimir didn't drink and Luci was on restriction due to her condition, so a jug of water made its way to the table, not that he thought his glass of vodka would fool anyone. He bet Vladimir would allow him to pickle himself until after the funeral and memorial service.

...

Cindy Cooper packed her bag, she was leaving the Royal Ballet School, Richmond had been a true home from home but the upper school had seen her falter, her early promise had vanished into the endless toil to be perfect when in reality it had ben two years of constant rejection and criticism. There was a sense of failure in her gut, she had flunked her final showcase, she had never been popular, always slightly too muscular or too tall for being the ideal ballerina. Too tall at 5 9 for the corps de ballet and not individual nor brilliant enough to be a soloist. Maybe she should join the army and just forget her dreams. She was not going home to Barnsley, not her home really after her parent's divorce three years ago. Her mother had turned bitter and resentful harpy and her dad had a new wife and a baby to worry about. Her Uncle B was picking her up. Her parents had indulged her dreams but now they said it was time to grow up, to take A Levels, go to uni doing a proper course and settling down to be normal. The tall brunette fought back the tears, she did not want normal. No, she wanted to dance. Uncle Bernie would listen to her and give her some straight answers. He would support her to follow her dream, he wanted her to be happy, successful and believed in her.

...

Sasha read the email from Sergeant Cooper. It was a good reason to return home. His two months in New York had been a stop gap. He was clean, had continued to train, go to AA meetings, and had danced for Vladimir on occasion. The older Russian had tried to push him to join a company, but Sasha's heart was not in it. Training and choreography, work as an individual freelance, possibly meant starvation but he was the maverick Maria had foretold. Yes, he would return to London and see what the future held. One step at a time. He may never dance professionally again but without his Manfred, maybe a change in career was possible.

He watched as Cindy performed her audition pieces, he had read her final report card from Covent Garden. The pieces, though beautiful, were lacking, but the girl was driven. Sasha, more than anyone, knew classical dance was not for everyone. The look of the dancers was restrictive, you had to fit the rigid mold of the profession. He sat back and looked around the community hall they had rented for the afternoon, the Sergeant was watching as Sasha stood and stretched. "Please watch, I am going to freeform to your basic routine. Watch and learn, you just feel the music, let your body react, your feelings flow. Forget technique. Thats ingrained now. We need something more. Your performance was faultless, but soulless. That is not dance. Dance is life. Watch and then you perform!"

Cindy and her uncle watched as the serious, young man become alive. The same music but a completely different interpretation, a raw frantic and energized flow of movement rather than the precise, elegant and conventional she had been taught.

...

Sasha even in his previous incarnation as teen spy had never been to Hereford. The town was old and full of beautiful timber framed buildings. He had booked into the Green Dragon for three nights as he trained and danced with Cindy. He was still in two minds on what direction his life would take, although there was some satisfaction to polish the girl's skills to prove her former teachers wrong. They had missed her drive and steely determination, but sometimes a student needed bitter disappointment to get the impetuous to shine. In his own case he had lost everything, including himself, when Manfred had seen something in the homeless street kid, then he had become the person he was meant to be, his own man.

He sat and pondered the menu in the bar restaurant. Salad or something more homely. He was not watching his wieght and decided on protein. "Steak and chips with a green salad on the side, no dressing."

"And to drink? Would sir like to see the wine list?"

"Oh, I don't drink" he left the anymore off the end, "ummm, do you do orange squash?" He had never liked blackcurrant and had weaned himself off his former addiction to coca cola. He also only liked proper fruit juice at breakfast and had never developed a taste for beer, wine or cider, even though he could drink non-alcoholic versions of these. No Alex had always drunk tequila or vodka as his poison of choice, but he had taken the pledge. His life was his to control. He did not need chemical stimulation, it was too tempting to go back to more dangerous pursuits when drinking. He would never be addicted to hard drugs again. Detox was close to being worse than anything that had happened when working for MI6.

"Of course sir" said the bright and cheerful waitress with her lovely local accent, so different from Londoners.

He noted the few figures at the bar, the stance of trained professional soldiers. He then noticed Eagle. If one of K unit were here, maybe Wolf and Snake would surface as well. Would they recognise him? He was much taller, thin with a very masculine face with strong jaw and the fact his nose had been reshaped after being badly broken in Miami.

He looked through the magazine he had bought earlier 'House and Home', his house housing four dancers in need of digs after Manfred's death. Their basic rent covered the bills. He thought on his house and its basic four bedrooms, it would be a squeze if he and Cindy moved in, more dorms than the bare house it was.

As he ate Sasha thought back on living, working and training with Manfred, and his sometimes impossible expectations.

Sasha had been food shopping and had arrived back at the house in Deptford to hear Manfred screaming abuse at the dancers he had hired. He must have heard Alex come in because he opened the door of the studio and shouted upstairs "Come in here now, russian boy."

There were five dancers in the rehearsal room and Manfred looked at the end of his tether. "You!" Manfred pointed to a tall lean dancer "Show Sasha the steps"

Sasha watched as he put on his shoes and stretched.

"Now dance." Manfred ordered of his lover.

The young dancer went through the steps without a word of complaint from the irate German and then danced with with music. "No No NO!"

Sasha looked shocked and waited for further instruction. "The steps, its not right. I need to think. Everyone leave. No not you, Sasha. You have to be my muse. Listen to the music and dance. Freeflow."

Alex remembered the music and he waited for the first few beats and he let himself was a video camera set up to record the practice sessions, so the choreographer could review every move.

The music finished and Sasha again turned to face the choreographer. Manfred looked thoughtful and then asked "Do you remember your movements?" To which Sasha nodded, noting the five dancers were about dressed to leave, but had huing bck to watch Manfred work.

He had been tempted to roll his eyes at his lover, knowing Manfred's strange whims and requests. God forbid you forget anything.

"OK again." Alex repeated himself. "Lovely. Now I must concentrate. Alex then went to the bar to go through stretches and bar work as he knew Manfred would want to try different steps leaps and sequences as he totally rethought the piece until he was happy.

Happy, chaotic times, those first few months together. The dancer finished the excellent steak, leaving most of the chips. It was then that he noted Eagle was looking at him intently. Sasha smirked wondering that the soldier was trying to place why he recognise the stranger from.

Eagle picked up his pint and went to talk to the blond mystery, obviously too young to be a soldier, but they had met.

"Jack Montrose." Eagle held out his hand noting the amusement playing on the face of the young man sat alone in the restaurant.

A death grip handshake and Sasha introduced himself "Its good to see you again Eagle. I'd actually hoped you would not recognise me, but as a trained professional you are meant to notice the details. Even so, I've changed quite a bit in the six years since we last met. Aleksandr Ivanovich Makarov, but you may call me Sasha or Cub if you like."

"Cub? Oh my God Cub. Are you here to train again? Christ I saw nothing on the boards about any spooks for re-evaluation"

The young dancer then laughed "Oh God, I haven't worked for the Bank since 2002. I... I went freelance for a short period then I changed vocations. I dance now."

"Dance?"

"Yeah I'm here to assist Sergeant Cooper's neice, I don't know if you've met Cindy. She has promise. Covent Garden weren't keen to employ her but I think she might need a more expansive repertoire to show her full potential."

Eagle then looked at Cub more closely. Signs that a decent plastic surgeon had done work on his face, correcting a broken nose and maybe even a cheek bone. Cub was a hell of a lot taller, which proved that Wolf was not telling lies when he had stated Cub had been only 14 in 2001 and working for MI6 Special Operations. "So were you at Richmond then?"

"Royal Ballet School? No freaking way. I learned to dance from an old friend, Mikhail Brezkin, he was a freelance fixer, worked for various mafia cartels and such. He was a much better employer than Blunt or Jones."

"In 2002?"

"Yeah, I had a few bad habits, after rehab, I changed career paths, took up dance full time, finished high school on a correspondence course and was adopted by Maria Makarova."

"Oh, interesting life, you've had then." Eagle thought on the fact the kid had worked for cartels, which meant anything from drug running, doing hits or considering his age working as in selling himself.

"I do like the Chinese Curse, 'may you live in interesting times', I got more than enough of that after my uncle Ian was murdered."

Eagle looked puzzled.

"You didn't think I volunteered for espionage work at 14? I was blackmailed and forced into it. All because of Ian. However, it has been nice to learn your real name and now you know mine. I guess life at Credenhill suits you well enough. I saw Fox in February when I sorted out my trust fund, but I want nothing to do with you people ever again. I only know Sergeant Cooper because of Cindy, she was a fan of my late partner, Manfred Schnagel. I used to perform for his Modern Dance Company." Sasha stood up and held out his hand, he really wanted to retire upstairs now, he needed a bath. He then had a truly wicked thought, "Would you like to join me?"

The SAS instructor looked at the handsome young man who was waiting for an answer before realising it was a pick up line. Eagle blushed bright red, "I'm not, err no , I'm fine, here. Err, see you around umm Cub".


	2. Chapter 2

"Come little muse." Sasha was stretching at the bar as Manfred told him the back story for this particular piece, a dance is for a charity concert. No pay but very prestigious. The event to be televised and with the Princess Royal in attendance. Manfred continued with "I was going to use the young soloist at the English National Ballet, but the boy is conceited and self-centered, so difficult already. You Alex are still modeling clay who I can mould fully to my whims. You bring my dreams to life, you are my Zephyr. A gift from the Gods."

Alex went through the steps, but as usual Manfred was still not happy.

Alex then asked "What do you wish to portray? Its not just the movement after all. What charity is it, anyway?"

"Amnesty international"

"Maybe I'm imprisoned, tortured. I'm in my cell between interrogations. I dance for freedom, for a dream of a life in the past, of lost innocence, of hope for the future." Alex said, looking at his reflection, trying not to see the shadow of Julius and Razim in his haunted eyes.

"Yes, it would fit the dance." said Manfred as he stepped forward to envelop his beautiful Sasha in a hug, to remind his lost boy that he was safe, loved and protected here.

"Can I make a suggestion? Change the tape start with South American football match, then tune over to music. I am sitting on the bed in the cell, I get up to listen to the match then I dance .." It would fit, pathos and hope.

"Perfect. Perfect. Now dance, show me what my piece has been missing. Show me your fractured soul, show me all your hurt, darling." Manfred knew Alex was now not dancing alone, the ghosts of his former life were there in the studio with him. Here this eighteen year old was exposing his demons for Manfred to see. It was a part of healing to confront to accept, to just be. Past, present, future played out in the blur of movement.

Costume and props were basic. Lighting would give the impression of the cell. Next in came the make up artist. It was two days before the dress rehearsal and Manfred was being a fuss pot. "You must look abused, maybe tortured."

Sasha then pulled out a book of photos from the library, the work of a young revolutionary in Argentina, who had catalogued the lucky survivors of the Junta. Pages and pages of the tortured, raped and abused.

"Oh, dear god. This is horrific!" gasped the German maestro.

"Just some ideas, OK" Sasha stripped to his boxers, as his costume was just a pair of football shorts. His body still had the faint lines of various past hurts. The old Polish make up artist took in this young boy's body, covered in signs of misuse. The boy had known pain. The old man used these marks as the start for his art, painting to refresh the old marks. Sasha looked in the mirror to see Alex Rider surface once more.

...

"I saw you dance at the Palladium in 2006, You were the best thing on the entire program." said Sergeant Cooper. He had suggested that Cub call him Bernie bit the young man called him Sergeant. That dance piece had been jarring and haunted. It spoke of true brilliance as both Manfred and the young Sasha Makarov had gained rave reviews.

"Umm, it was a very personal piece. I think Manfred got to see my very soul then, I gave myself fully to him. There was no more masks after that. I told him everything the night after that concert. I.. I came to Brecon under threat of loosing my home and my guardian, darling Jack. It too fifteen months for MI6 to take everything from me and they did. I was so so lost. I tried to go back to normal life but I was a poor actor. I met someone who showed me how to dance, how to fuck, how to drink and how to get so high nothing mattered. When I met Manfred I had lost my way again, he showed me true discipline, Dancing is everything. It gave me a reason to stay clean and I worked hard. Your niece has played at life, she must learn hard lesson's to not just survive but to triumph. I will train with her and maybe she and I will dance at some open auditions. I do not hold much hope for her in a ballet company. I would suggest more original work. There are more companies in America for that. We will have to work hard to get noticed, but I think se could be a true maverick. Different enough to be refreshing."

"I don't know. Cindy wants to be a prima ballerina."

"No Cindy needs to dance. Classical ballet has already rejected her. I will broaden her horizons. If she fails she can choreograph or teach. Her journey now is to try her hardest to succeed. It is a hard road, lots and lots of rejection. This world is full of petty bullies, primadonnas and gossips. I find the gossip the most amusing."

"Yeah, they even printed that you were the bastard son of Vladimir Stravenkov."

"My father was Lt. John Rider of the SAS. He died when I was 3 months old. Vladimir is more like a long suffering mentor. I love staying with him and his family. It gives me a glimpse of what I never had. I do so want to be a real boy." Sasha smiled a brilliant smile. He had decided to go back to the grind of auditions and looking for work, back to being a small fish in a large pond, gone was his lovely cocoon that Manfred provided. Now he would deal with the petty jealousy and the fact most saw him as just as Manfred Schnagel's boy toy. The next few months would be as hard for Alex as the were Cindy. It would temper them both.

"So Uncle B, what were you and Sasha talking about?' asked Cindy after the class had finished.

"Sasha's dad was in the SAS, it was the first time he's spoken of his past. He had a rough few years as a teenager. He told me of his adopted mother, the Prima Ballerina Maria Makarova. She was a maverick. She said Sasha was one too. I think Sasha thinks your a maverick too. If you path takes you to become a teacher like Maria, you should embrace it. I think Sasha would make a great dance teacher, he's a strange one too. Look he's willing to take you on, but its going to be hard. Neither of you are established and its a dog eat dog world. Just a warning, follow your dream but don't let it break you. You always can come here and chill with your sad sack uncle. This is not the only path, OK pumpkin."

The young girl wrapped a large cardigan around her tall, thin frame. She had lost weight i the past month, weight she had not needed to loose as she was looking a bit gaunt. "Sage advice. I'll give it two years. Maybe I'll join up if it all goes pair shaped. I definitely do not want a boring normal job. What will be, will be. I guess I'm moving back to the big smoke then. At least I can stay at Saha's house in Chelsea. Thanks for everything Uncle B, you are the best, you truly are."


	3. Chapter 3

Alex drove in silence wondering if his offer for Sergeant Cooper to drop in anytime at Cheyne Walk was a mistake. He loathed the SAS, MI6, ASIS and the CIA, well all spooks. He knew he was tense, being in Hereford had been trying on several levels. He stole a glance at the sleeping Cindy and shook his head. The girl looked peaceful and very young in her sleep, he bet she never had horrific nightmares, bouts of insomnia or crippling self hatred. Manfred had loved his little Sasha enough to chase the demons away. He pondered the fact maybe he needed to see a shrink. He had just pushed all his problems to the side, too busy, to dwell on the horrors in his past. He still missed Jack like an open wound. He tried never to think of Yassen, the assassin who had died for him. Tears welled up in his eyes, he was too emotional. He needed an outlet. Working bloody hard would get him back in synch. If the worst came to the worst he might start stripping again. It paid well, he also knew that Bibbi and Mario had done escort work. Well, that was the polite way of describing whoring yourself out for several hundred pounds a time.

He sucked in and stamped on the hurt, pain, loneliness and despair, which were his constant companions, and concentrated on the drive, noting the skies had darkened with his mood. The heavens were about to open. He then thought of the Dire Straits song...'the sky is crying, the streets are full of tears. Rain come down wash away my fears.' Well, he was here and this was now. He could only walk the road he was on. Now he knew he was in a bad place thinking of soppy songs and neat snippets of philosophy. Doomed, he was truly doomed.

The spray splashed up from the passing cars. The rain beat down on the roof, the windscreen wipers were almost not keeping up with the deluge. The weather was the English speciality of filthy. Fifty miles to the M25, maybe a stop off was required. Hot strong black coffee, not the bottle of vodka he really wanted.

He pulled in and parked at some petrol station with cafe attached. Cindy woke as soon as he turned off the engine. They ran into the cafe.

The pair sat a small table on uncomfortable hard chairs. A teenage waitress approached when Alex made his decision not to suffer alone, but to phone a friend. "Order me a black coffee Cin, I need to make a phone call."

Four, five...six rings and then Simon Smith picked up. "Creaden Designs"

"Si, can you talk. Its Sasha? I'm having a moment." Simon was his sponsor, his crutch and safety net, when he wobbled. On arriving back in London his first port of call was getting his AA meetings, support group and back-up sorted. Vladimir had been managing his alcoholism since the early 1990's, so was an expert on the hard task of staying sober. Maria had picked the perfect mentor for him, one that understood personal demons. Many things drove people to drink, no drunk was happy or well adjusted before they took the pledge.

"I can listen, you talk. Whats happening with you?"

"I have confronted some of the issues that lead me to drink in the first place. I met one of the abusive bastards from when I was a very wayward teenager. Seeing him, dredged up all the crap I've been bottling up for years. I've never cleared the air over all that shit. Its too much. I really really really want to get wasted. I want the oblivion of a few glasses of vodka, a few lines of coke, maybe a bit of speed and a lot of sex. Maybe I just need to get laid." Alex wiped his face. "Its been ten weeks since he died. Ten weeks alone. Only ten weeks but it seems like all my time with Manfred was just a beautiful dream. Christ, life sucks."

"Fell better after the rant?"

"A bit. I'll go play nice with my new student and drink a couple of cups of black coffee. I think I'll indulge myself once I get back to Chelsea. Takeaway, a bubble bath and I'll try and con Serge into giving me a massage."

"Serge, Is he the one who came to your last meeting?" Simon Smith remembered the dark haired stocky joker, who had tried to act as Sasha's protector.

"Yeah, it was so funny when he tried his usual smarmy chat up lines to get Mimi to date him. The guy's bad news. Anything on two legs is fair game. Maybe he has the right idea. I... I think I need to go see a shrink."

"Its an idea kid. You've had a real messed up life. Talking helps, whether its a professional or just someone you trust. Get you head around what's bugging you."

"Waking up every morning bugs me. I have to sort things out. Things were easier in New York. You know with Vladimir's family. It was cool to kind of belong."

"You just have to make your own family, Sasha. You'll feel better back at your house. A houseful, noise and activity will be good, no moping on your own. Take up a few hobbies, you used to do karate, skiing, diving? Take something up, get out there. You are young and their will be someone else out there for you. Don't let Serge play matchmaker, what ever you do."

"Thanks for the chat. I'll see you tomorrow. Ciao."

"Keep it real, kid"

Cindy had listened in, only missing a bit as she ordered the coffees. "Are you OK? I can drive if you want. I have had my licence over a year. Uncle B taught me when I was 15."

"No, I know the way. I just... I fell off the wagon after Manfred died. I got sober pretty quick, but its hard to manage alone. Manfred kept me too busy to have wobbles. I'll be OK once we start working. Two weeks to the ENB's open auditions. Serge is trying out, We both will too. You need a bit of Russian polish. You will hate me by the end of next week, but I am passing on Maria Makarova's dance training secrets. That woman was a total workaholic and completely brilliant. She was taught by a pupil by a pupil of Diaghiliev. She was a true Baba Yaga. I will teach you russian as well so you will immerse yourself in culture." Alex looked at the girl, still a child really but on the way to adulthood. She would hate him but she would learn, grow and shine.

Alex pulled his car in front of his house on the small private driveway shared with the row of twenty houses. The house was worth millions. Alex had seen the deeds. It had been bought for a pittance in the 1970's by John Rider, and rented out. In the 1990's, Ian had renovated, modernised the townhouse and moved in. It should have been John and Helen's martial home, there had also been a house in France. Sold by Ian and the money invested in bonds and shares. Alex Rider was moderately well off and all of it was blood money.

He opened the door and gave Cindy a quick tour. "Now there's a choice of sleepin arrangements, either a camp bed in the box room or sharing with Serge. If you want we could toss a coin, it wouldn't matter as the tart spends most nights elsewhere. So camp bed or sharing a room with a nymphomaniac. Your choice."

"I'll take the box room." said Cindy, completely unsure of sharing with a guy she had never met.

"The two other rooms are all shared so there are seven of us living here at the moment. Serge and I have an en-suite so the rest of you have to battle it out over the shower room downstairs and the larger bathroom down the hall. There is a practice room in the attic. The only house rule is no drugs, no hard liquor. Wine, beer or cider are OK. The rent is £75 a week. No exceptions. If you need a job, you can come with me tomorrow night. Two nights work normally brings in 400-£500 quid. Its dancing, just in a g-string. You can earn a lot more by working the floor. You get a cut of what the john's order from the bar. The more they drink the richer you are."

"John's?"

"Its a strip joint. Nothing more than chat and dancing. I worked there to get my equity card. You do sets there, its an easy way in. Easier if you go to Paul's auditions. Paul owns a string of clubs. Also produces films of a certain type."

"You mean porn." said the girl, smart enough to read between the lines.

"Yeah, I've only done bit parts myself. I never wanted to get down and dirty. Its better than starving."

"Ill take that on advisement."

"The clubs are fun. You drink, dance and get paid. Just for pretending some looser is fascinating and the most interesting person you have ever met. Wird of warning, never date anyine you meet there, especially the work force. Its mafia all the way. Also never do drugs. You get hooked they own you."

Cindy had just fallen down the rabbit hole. To fund your art, you worked your ass off literally. She then looked at Sasha and knew he was painting a bleak and worst case scenario picture. She would go and see, she was no chicken. If this was an easy way into the business who was she to turn her nose up at easy money.


	4. Chapter 4

Cindy came downstairs after unpacking and phoning her mother, father and uncle to reassure them she was OK, that she was safe and the house was not a complete dump. In fact it was a really nice house in Chelsea no less. Her room was small but at least she did not have to share with anyone else. The ground floor was open plan, a large kitchen/diner to the rear with a small patio/yard beyond. The front room was like an American den, Two large sofas and a decent TV with home cinema.

A dark haired stranger introduced himself "Hi, its Cindy right? I'm Serge, Like the TV, Alex bought that after doing some god awful video shoot. Its his pride and joy. That and the sound system upstairs in the studio. All the art was his uncle's."

"Alex, do you mean Sasha?" asked the perplexed girl.

"One and the same, Sasha's the dancer. The moody arsehole, who owns this house, who drinks and can't sleep, thats Alex. He's OK, right? Not been drinking. I've been worried."

"No, no drinking. He called his friends Si on the way here, though." Cindy explained, thinking it was relevant to Serge's query.

"Crap. I'm just going to check that he's OK. Help yourself to tea or coffee, the kitchen's over there." Serge paused at the bottom of the stairs, "Mines a milky brew, no sugar. Alex like his coffee black."

Alex then interrupted from the stairs "Like my heart." The two men hugged when Alex entered the living room, before he went to make the drinks. "Everyone in tonight?"

"They sure are, to welcome you home. Denny even made a cake."

"I'm surprised the house is not a smoldering wreck."

"Packet mix, even he could not fuck that up" Serge laughed.

Alex had a hard strange look on his face remembering a housekeeper, who had burnt his birthday cake in 1995, so badly their neighbour in Berlin had called the fire brigade when the burnt offering had been thrown outside by an hysterical Jack. She had set the oven to grill not bake, causing the complete disaster. All birthday cakes had been bought from then on.

"You OK, Al?" said the worried roommate.

"Fine. Just remembering something from my god awful childhood." Alex then brought in the beverages. "So Cin, just so you know we both danced for Manfred and we share similar pasts. Both orphans, both went off the rails as teenagers and we both had a very unorthodox path to become dancers. We're like psycho twins."

"Speak for yourself. We both changed our names. I was Desmond O'Malley," said with a straight Dublin accent and then changed to esturine London " now I'm Serge St. Clair and so much more up market. Al went from London wide boy to mysterious Russian-American, adopted by a Prima Ballerina no less."

"Missed quite a bit out there, Serge" Alex stated with a smile.

"Don't want to scare the pretty lady away, now do we?"

"She has to learn sometime, there are no fairytale endings" said Alex, completely believing that. "Happiness is fleeting, grab it while you can".

"So, Bethany was following your life philosophy running off with that sugar daddy of hers"

"Bethany used to be the lead female dancer in our mismatched band of performers. She's moved on to better things." Alex could not blame the girl, she had been promised the moon and stars by Manfred and it all came to nothing. "I want to get my feet again, train, go to auditions to test the water but I think we should try and get the company back on the road, still with the original line up and repertoire. Working so hard for the big picture, a full company drove Manfred to his grave. I... I want to finish what we were working on. Even if its only a few venue dates. It will be closure before we all go our separate ways. Just to warn you, Vladimir was really pushing for me to move back to New York. I'm not sure I want to. I don't know. Its just wrong without him."

Serge then reached around to hug Alex, "Its OK, Al. He was a horrible, loud, sarcastic tyrant but we still loved him. We all did. You were special though, you were his little Sasha, his muse, his zephyr, his beautiful lost boy."

The front door bell rang and Alex jumped up as he knew it was their supper, a banquet of delecacies ordered from the local Bengali restaurant. As Alex put the main dishes into the oven to keep warm and to plate up the poppadoms, pickles and starters, he looked at Cindy. "I hope you like your food hot and spicy. We all do. No vindaloos though, we are not chavs. Can you but the lassi into glasses?"

"What's lassi?"

"Oh, indian yogurt drink, either salty or sweet. I ordered a mixture. I love both. I went to India, I think I was 8, for only a few days."

"Did you travel around a lot?" asked Cindy as she dried the drink, it was bit like a milkshake.

"Yeah, Serge called me a Londoner but I have lived all over. Only been to Russia once though."

"With your adoptive mother?"

"No, no. I don't really want to talk about it." Alex said. Well, not with anyone here. The nagging doubt in his head was that he already had closure over Manfred, putting personal happiness in the past, but his teenage misadventures were bleeding into his present and he needed to close the door on those difficult days. He had to speak to the Bank regarding clearance and an approved therapist.

Alex went to hit a small gong in the hall to signal all that it was time to eat, chat and concentrate on the here and now and everyone's plans for the future.

Cindy had found the whole evening to be odd, she had been welcomed into the shattered remains of a dance company. Five of them already had other work lined up. Serge had work modeling, rather than dancing. She would train, dance and find a job. It left little time for a personal life. Maybe thats why all here had made time for the communal meal, a short respite, a piece of something like family for those whose art outweighed anything else.

In the master bedroom, the dark haired young man, with green eyes and heart-melting good looks, was already laid in the queen sized bed, feeling an interloper into Alex's space, but beggars could not be choosers and Alex had generously allowed his friends all to share his home at a knock down rent. "Are you really OK, Al? You were pretty quiet tonight." Serge said to the back of the tall blond who was brushing his teeth in the small en-suite.

"Yes and no. Two steps forward, three steps back. A least its busy tomorrow, Class first thing, a couple of hours getting Cindy to unlearn half of what the fascists at Covent Garden told her. I have a meeting in the afternoon and I think I'm going to see some old friends. I have decided to try therapy for a bit."

"Really, I never really got all the psychology shit I had to put up with between the social workers, the foster homes and the constantly changing schools. God, I was so lucky with my last placement. I think I should go see those old queens tomorrow, just to remind them what a fantastic job they did of straighten me out."

Al got into bed and turned out his light straight away to stare at the ceiling. "I still think its so funny we both found dance as fifteen year olds on opposite sides of the world. You in Camden and me in San Francisco."

"Shit Al, Misha was a fucking bastard to you."

"Yeah, but he got me from A to B. From nutcase to finding a home and happiness. I could not have done it without him. Bastard or not, he was part of my journey." Alex had tried to find his old partner, but he had disappeared, retired whatever, and did not want to be found.


	5. Chapter 5

Alex sat against the mirror in his attic practice room, the space was OK for class, bar practice, but too narrow for any meaningful rehearsal. He had pushed himself hard this morning with class and practice. Cindy had joined him. "So, did you dance with partners much at school?" Alex asked as Cindy seemed to hesitant when partnering up especially for lifts. Her nervousness was something he had to understand to move past.

"No, I bloomed early, so to speak. At fifteen I was taller than most of the boys and stronger. One bitch stated I should have a sex change as I'd be a perfect male dancer. I cried for weeks after she said that to me."

"I bet it was a teacher." Alex said under his breath. "I'm considered rather tall myself, just over six foot. I was seventeen before I had my last growth spurt, at fourteen I was strong but still short, young looking. Still a child." Alex thought almost wistfully to the fact in Year 9 at Brookland, all the girls all developed into young women and they, he and Tom, were stuck with wavering voices and childish mentalities. "Do you know Le Corsaire? Its a good set piece for dancing alone and with a partner for auditions?"

"I.. never partnered up for that at Covent Garden. I did the solo pieces, but other girls, were chosen for the pas de deux parts I was a wall flower. I've watched but never practiced myself."

Alex smiled, "Show me what you remember of the solo piece."

Cindy was foot perfect, great extension, hesitant in the right places and aggressive when needed. She had great instincts when not over thinking things.

"That was good." Alex then changed to Sasha as he knelt, to start the pas de deux. He stood behind her. Maria had driven home to him that when dancing the male was to compliment the ballerina, never outshine her when both were on stage, he had to be both respectful and fully in command when needed for support or lifts. The old harridan had shown him videos of the greats from Leningrad, Moscow, London and America. He had seen Cynthia Gregory, tall and wonderfully beautiful even if she towered over most of her partners.

Cindy trusted Sasha as he performed the different lifts effortlessly. Showing the girl any partner worth his salt would work through the lifts to attain perfection. Sasha stood back "I never said this to Maria but its so Star Wars you know, Do or Do Not there is no Try. You must practice until its instinct and then you can flow, feel and dance. Its just movement until that point."

The bank had not changed, but it had only been eight months since his last visit to claim his bequest from Ian and John Rider's estates. Security on the door comprised two guards, video surveillance, and a receptionist to field all enquiries, the bank was like its swiss counterparts. You had to get past the girl on the desk and then escorted to a private office or upstairs. Alex was still in practice clothes, loose baggy sweats over his tights, a large jumper and shapeless coat. He looked like he was homeless. "Good afternoon, I wish to see someone about my health insurance. My name is Alex Rider."

He waited as his enquiry was passed to personnel. Last time it had taken half an hour before he saw John Crawley. He wondered who he would see this time, probably some faceless bureaucrat.

"Please take the left hand elevator to the fourteenth floor, a Mr. Daniels will see you."

Fox looked older, a few grey hairs in the mix, lines on his face when he showed his former team mate and fellow agent to his cubicle. It looked like Fox had endured a few hard years but working for MI6 Special Operations was a hard life. Alex noted the desk had not been cleared, a pile of paperwork on view. Alex wondered if this meant his clearance was still in place. God forbid they try and recruit him. Fox smiled as a young girl, an intern probably brought in coffees and some digestives on a chipped plate.

"Good to see you Cub. How can I be of help?"

Alex sat back and considered his options. Bare bold truth was the order of the day. "I ran away in 2002 and I've not had any therapy since. I'm a master at avoidance and denial but what you bastards did to me has left its mark. I need to deal with all that shit and to do that I need to talk of all the crap covered by the OSA. I need a shrink you approve of, one that gets to have full access to files so that he or she knows what they are dealing with. The shrink the Pleasure's got me in San Francisco was practically useless as I was unable to talk about what was really eating me."

"How have you been coping?"

"I'm a recovering drug addict and alcoholic, that kind of tells you just how well I've coped. I fell of the wagon ten weeks ago. Its been hard, but my AA support has been great. I have a few I consider family and some good friends. I'm not having flashbacks but the nightmares are bad enough that I don't want to sleep. I find it hard to relax. I guess its the price of moving back into Cheyne Walk. Its full of reminders even with the recent renovations. I can still see Jack burning things in that kitchen. Its not PTSD, well not really. Maybe I don't know."

"OK, Alex. I'll talk to human resources and get you set up with the units health support. I guess you fell through the cracks. You have a file, your status is inactive. The fact you were a supposed freelance asset makes everything a bit grey. If the higher ups deny everything, go see Doctor Pritchard, he has a practice on Harley Street, expensive but he used to be the SAS unit shrink. Just so you know, you are quite a hero. Most have heard of your exploits. He's a good listener."

"Forget about going through internal channels, Fox. We both know I'm a dirty little secret that they all want to forget about. I was never officially on the books. I'll pay to talk things over with this Doc Pritchard. I feel happier knowing he's not directly connected with the bank, I'm paranoid enough not to want any connection with you guys. Your bastard bosses ruined my life. I don't think I can ever forgive them for that. Blunt and Jones can never make up for the fact Jack was murdered because of that Scorpia trap they set me up for." What ALex wanted to say was that his mistake was not shooting that bitch Tulip Jones in 2001 and not stopped there; he should have used everything he learned at Malagosto to torture on Blunt really really slowly as well. Hindsights a wonderful thing isn't it.

Fox relaxed a bit, Cub was taking the sensible no-nonsense approach. The kid had his head screwed on strsight, with a clear desire to resolve his problems on his own terms. "So, Cub, Snake's at my place on Sunday for a catch up, do you want to come over?"

Alex stood up and with a hard look stated, "We are not friends, Fox. We were once colleagues if your being delusional. What happened in 2001 was child abuse, you can tell all your little K unit friends that. I was destroyed by all those missions. I may have saved the day on those occasions but none of you were there to pick up the pieces. My friends, the Pleasures, tried and failed. The person you knew then, Cub, is dead. Forget I occasionally talk to you. If I get through this blip and get back on track with my life, it has nothing to do with you guys. You may think I'm friends with Sergeant Cooper, but he became my friend post my self destruction. He knows me post-MI6, not the other way round." Alex strode away and then turned around. "I'm being a complete shit about this but I'm not coping at the moment, ask me in a few months. I may have got over being an absolute bitch and have some perspective but now, just leave it OK. See you round, Fox."

Alex went straight to Harley Street. Posh offices in tasteful surroundings. He really hoped it wold be more productive than his two attempts at therapy in the past. God help him if he had to go back into group with a bunch of people with no concept of losing everything.

The receptionist was very smartly dressed and with a mouthful of plums. "Good Afternoon, how may we help you?"

"Right, an associate of mine, Ben Daniels, err ex-army.. umm SAS recommended Doctor Pritchard. I.. I have a few problems and I feel therapy may straighten them out, I need to get a few ground rules sorted with the doc, to get a rapport, some common ground, trust and the like." God, Alex thought he sounded lame in the extreme.

"OK may I take a few details?"

"Sure... Aleksandr Makarov, 13 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. I have my driving licence with me. I changed my name legally at 17. I have dual British and American nationality. I have been in therapy twice at 15. Both times I walked away. I'm paranoid, depressed and grieving. Do you need anything else?"

"Ok, Mr. Makarov. The initial consultation is for 60 minutes. Do you have a referral from your GP or any health insurance."

"No to both. I'll pay for my sessions, cash OK."

"Cash is fine, Mr. Makarov. I have a cancellation and can fit you in tomorrow at 2. Is that acceptable. My next free appointment is next thursday?"

"Tomorrow is great. Whats the damage per session?" Alex asked knowing it would be steep just to cover the posh consulting rooms.

"£300 per hour or £150 per half hour." The woman smiled and handed over a very professional looking brochure.

For some reason he was nervous about talking over stuff. He had talked of his past to Manfred, Maria, Vladimir and bits and pieces to Luci. Serge had empathized about being an orphan during Alex's first session drinking after Manfred's death. He'd then shared with the Irish bloke, well everything from Ian to Misha and the whole sorry intervening period. Serge had listened and they had become friends. Before Alex had been a jealous monster over the handsome dancer who Manfred never had a cross word for, always kind and understanding to Serge. Alex had wanted to smash his face in. Serge had been the one to connect with him when he had gone to pieces in spectacular fashion in the devastation of loosing his life partner.

The patient walked into a large airy office, tastefully decorated, and with two comfortable large sofas. It was homey rather than clinical.

"Hi.. umm, Doctor Pritchard, I'm Alex or Sasha."

"Good Afternoon Alex, you may call me Terrance, if that would help you relax."

"So, now to the down and dirty. I have drink and drug dependency problems. I'v been clean of drugs since rehab in 2003. I however, started drinking again heavily after my lover, my partner, Manfred died in June this year. My friend Vladimir, my AA mentor got me cleaned up, sober. I go to meetings twice a week and have a full support group. Its the crap before I've never really talked over, resolved. I had a very shitty couple of years from 14 to 16. I want you to listen. It may take me a couple of sessions to talk you through everything, but you have to let me tell you things my way. Its complicated and unbelievably bad. My friend Fox, I mean Ben Daniels can back me up. I should start in order though. Tell it like it happened. It started when my uncle, the man who brought me up... died. I think I have to talk about Ian first, he and my father laid the foundation for all that went wrong, but I'm getting out of context. I had an unusual childhood, really unusual. I thought I was happy, thought that I had a good relationship with a workaholic banker. He brought me up, but I was really raised by a series of nannies, au pairs and staff until Jack became our housekeeper when I was seven. Right so Ian died on the 6th March 2001, allegedly in a car accident..."

Alex talked and talked about Ian and soon his hour was up. "Shit, I can't believe I spent an hour talking about fucking Ian."

The psychiatrist looked perplexed. "I know about the Royal and General Bank, you have nothing to fear about me not believing you. I am fully independent and all spoken about here is covered by doctor patient confidentiality." The doctor then made a few notes. "I can see you again this weekend if needed. I will give you my card. I also consult at St. Stephen's Chelsea on Wednesdays and Fridays. My office number is noted as is my private mobile and email. I think you have much to discuss about your childhood before we cover other details, but you need to talk it all through in the way you need to make sense of it."

"Yeah, thanks for listening. Maybe now I won't keep scaring the crap out of Serge when I tell him things."


	6. Chapter 6

So, that was the mysterious Cub. It was a puzzle in itself how Alex Rider became Aleksandr Makarov. Had the Russian Federal Security Services picked up the pieces and helped Alex disappear in 2002, but the young man had an American, not a Russian passport. The session had seen his newest patient talk fast in concise sentences, an hour in full freeflow, tumbling over events seven years ago. Backtracking every so often to explain things in detail, giving the background of a childhood being exploited as part his uncle's masterplan to train the perfect agent. He had heard stories of the fourteen year old sent to train at Brecon. The Leader of K unit had gone over the operation in France at the Point Blanc Academy in detail during his sessions. Guilt had caused problems for Wolf, he had mercilessly hazed the kid and then finding out the fourteen year old Alex Rider had full field agent status. Everything else Terrance Pritchard had heard about was rumours. Something bag had happened in 2002, his retirement, fostering to friends, running away and possible suicide had made the rounds at Hereford that autumn. Alex had survived for six years on his own, he had only now sought out help for a fellow member of K unit. The doctor's curiosity burned but he would not break confidence. He would allow Alex to tell him all that worried him, hopefully just talking would help, but the young man looked tired, a victim of crippling nightmares bordering on night terrors. The fact he was in AA and had been on and off since he was 16 meant he had been talking but probably highly edited versions of events. Alex had stated that before he ran away he had confessed to friends and an earlier psychologist for his life events not to be believed.

Alex had found a dingy room as rehearsal space. Paul had given him a good deal only £20 a day for a former dance hall awaiting demolition. He had been to visit his shady acquaintance after his first psych session.

"Come on in, trouble." Paul for all his up front brashness of a low life sleeze was actually very cultured, a regular patron of the arts. "I saw you got decent notices from the pieces you did for Vladimir over the pond. I thought you'd stay with your family?." Paul had a rueful grin on his face. He knew how much the rumours regarding Sasha and Vladimir wound the young dancer up.

"I did not want to stay in New York. I have to try and either find closure or actually make something of myself here. Going back home was just a bit too much like saying my relationship with Manfred was a meaningless as most people made out. Serge is willing to continue as a smaller unit and I've got a new girl to try out. We'll probably start as street performers before going into actual venues. Start small, get noticed, then make some money."

"You using Manfred's pieces?"

"Thats the rub, Bernd was not very receptive when I approached him a couple of weeks ago with the idea of continuing with the same troupe, format and choreography. He said I was not the right person to continue Manfred's legacy. Just an airhead fuck toy you know."

"Don't do yourself down. Manfred told me it was you who drove him to create, you were the impetus behind him getting a dance company together, being the creative force he was meant to be. So, are you working on new pieces?"

"I have a bunch of ideas. Cin... Cindy is a good critique. Very black and white in her views. She could be a new Manfred. Serge is working on music and concepts, you know hanging out with art school types. He thinks we should go the whole hog, performance art, full-on social and political statements. I get that doing some edgy stuff will get us noticed. I want to work with more classical basis as well. It'll be as much influenced by Maria and Vladimir as Manfred. Serge is doing class full time to get up to scratch. His street dance is still there but I want it to be different, more ethnic and Serge hates folk stuff."

"Are you looking for backing?" Paul said. He had been a generous sponsor to Manfred over the last three years. He had been a friend to the couple as well as a fan of the older German. Paul had seen Manfred perform in the seventies.

"Eventually. We are right back at the beginning again. Rehearsal space is a must. My house is too pocky. Cin is going to the open auditions for the ENB and the Royal. She wants to showcase the new improved her. She'll not get picked. She's an amazon. 6'2 en pointe. I need work to cover expenses. I'm loathed to admit it but I really don't want to go back to hustling, but I think its a must."

The man in the shamble of an office had connections far beyond his string of strip clubs. Paul knew about Sasha's past. Domingo Cortez was an affiliate with a continued interest in the kid his brother had almost beaten to death. It was like the head of the Miami Cartel was a concerned godfather. It had been a bit frightening to have an american-cuban heavyweight act all protective over a stripper of all things. Paul in 2004 had not paid any attention to the kid until that happened. Domingo spoke of a Scorpia trained operative. "You want to do some jobs for me?"

"As in?" Alex was being drawn back into dirty work.

"Clean up work, some information gathering. Maybe some financial transfers. You have good form. I could use those skills." Paul was wanting to see if Alex would work for him, he wanted to see if the rumours about Sasha, were true.

"I'll do anything except clean up work. Get a professional in for that. If I start down that path, I won't be dancing anymore. My work for you has to be freelance and very part time. I do class everyday no exceptions."

"Would you consider a full time position if your dance troupe fails?" The gangster guessed the dancer was unsure if life without Manfred was also a life without dance. Dancers also had very short careers, only the exceptional made it beyond 30.

"Only if this current head shrinking works. I need to get myself together. My training was good but I did not achieve complete professional disassociation. I blame the fact I got started too young. It has scarred me mentally as well as physically."

"I have some escort work." Paul's last card was played.

Alex let out a short bark of laughter, "Right, vanilla or BDSM"

"Both."

"OK, One thing I definitely did not want to go back to." Alex had hated that one aspect of working with Misha. He had never been happy being passed around. Being out of your head made it almost acceptable, Alex had no wish to return to those dark days.

"Don't worry its all high end, Very high end. I'll hand pick your dates, even provide a driver." A driver was either a pimp or a bodyguard. Paul took good care of his top earning merchandise, they were not to be damaged. "I have a filthy rich arab on my books. He likes blonds, not kids, not virgins, worldly. He'll like you. He might even want keep you. Give it a try. He tips well."

"How much for a 'date' and whats your cut." Alex looked resigned to the fate of going back to working. He missed Manfred. Sex between them had always been right. Both could read each others moods from quickies in the studio to nights filled with caresses, and long drawn out orgasms.

"Well, you'll be taking home two grand a night, thats after I take my bit of profit. I've always seen you right. I bet that shrink of yours is not cheap. A few days a month thats all you'll need to keep your head above water. You'll be dining well, going to the best parties, hobnobbing with the the Hoi polloi. You have some nice clothes, you'll fit right in." Paul knew he was pushing Alex, but he was not meat, not like most who crossed into the seedier underbelly of sexploitation.

"Ok, I'll meet your arab prince."

"Not a prince, self made man, naturalised American like yourself."

"Afternoon Doc." Alex sat and pondered the thick deep carpet and the luxurious setting of this Harley Street clinic, before stating what was currently on his mind. "I dread dating again. A friend of mine is setting me up with his business associates. I miss Manfred so much. He knew just how to touch me, to make me melt, to fire me up. One look and I knew how much that he wanted me. With he and I the universe stopped. Now I go back to fucking. I want him. I'm so angry that he left me. I lost everything when he died."

"Do you think you need more time to grieve?"

"No, I'm a realist. Connections, love, my life with my Knoedel was truly special. I thought I was in love before, but Manfred was the real deal. I have had caviar, now I must make do with kasha." Alex had loved Maria's kasha, hot buttery and salty. He had to admit he was horny, hearing about Serge's exploits proved that celibacy was not on the cards. Serge had three girlfriends on the go at the moment. He guessed his room mate was playing the queer card to get girls to turn him straight. The Irish boy was such a card.


	7. Chapter 7

Serge was beginning to feel the strain of class, rehearsal and working for a living. He had listened and approved of Sasha's idea of the three of them making a go of a guerrilla dance troupe. Mixing street performance with small venues. All new pieces, all in Sasha's style, so it was contemporary ballet, rather than the loose mix of moves Manfred had preferred. Sasha was moulding a street dancer into the discipline of the Russian school as taught by Maria, his adoptive mother. Serge was lying in a bath of ice water, his knees, thighs, ankles, calves and feet were beyond punished. He was getting there though and he would not back down. He looked at his watch, he had 40 minutes before he had to leave for his modelling job and he there was a slight possibility he'd still be walking like an old man. Alex promised he would give him a massage. It would make all the difference to his aching bones.

The series of auditions for ballet companies across Britain had seen Cindy and himself weeded out at the initial stage. She was too tall, and his obvious street dance credentials were not what companies wanted. Sasha had made it through to final selection for soloist three times and Serge was sure he had turned down Birmingham. It came down to Alex being bluntly honest about his past. He was in AA, in the programme. He had been in rehab. Ok if you were an established star but not as the maverick starter. Alex did not care. He was making plans and his ideas for short explosive pieces tailored for the excellent money making opportunities in London. He already had the licence for street performance and venues booked starting this Saturday. Then they would iron out any performance glitches along the way. A short tour was provisionally booked in small art venues across Britain. Alex had contacts with all Manfred's old crowd. It certainly made it easier than starting out completely green.

Marc De Winter stood in Covent Garden and watched the remains of the Manfred Schnagel Company perform. The former principal, the young Sasha Makarov, was a star in the making and by the look of it an exceptional choreographer. Manfred had taught his ingenue well. The three dancers worked well together. Sasha and Serge worked the audience with ease, cheeky and quick witted. They pulled a large float from their performances this afternoon. The Arts Journalist wrote articles about theatre, dance and music for the Standard. This article would make it to the broad sheets. He looked at the flier he'd been handed. 'Troika, Trio, Three". The three dancers each wearing T-shirts with these words emblazoned on them. It was a very good photograph, but Serge had a reputation as a model and would know a few photographers. He himself was here after an email from Vladimir Stepankov, the American Ballet Theatre Artistic Director had pulled out his contacts for Maria's boy. Marc wondered on the reasons the prima ballerina had adopted a boy of unknown background, a rumoured teenage hustler and thief. The journalist knew that the questions over Vladimir's paternity were just that, rumours. The Grand Dame Maria had always been a strange one. The young dancer was her legacy. Vladimir had stated the old witch had threatened to haunt him beyond the grave if he did not look out for her boy, the boy so like her Marek. Veshin, the one time Director at the Marinsky Ballet School, who had been a pupil of the Great Petipa. The man who had mentored a young orphan girl in the 1940's to become a Prima Ballerina. Sasha had the look of Marek Veshin, more than he looked like Vladimir. Like all great theatre, the young Makarov had an air of mystery and depth about him. It was a refreshing, raw and brash performance, dance and circus mixed. He would enjoy pocking fun at the fact this boy, with no formal dance training, was a diamond the dance companies had failed to nurture. Maria had an eye for talent, for the unusual.

Sasha woke before dawn and made a pan of kasha, adding extra butter as a special treat, as shown by his baba yaga, the only mother he had known, who had fed him up, to put flesh on his bones. He stirred the pan and thought back to her fast demise as her cancer ate into her bones. He had remembered happier times. The old woman opening her home and her heart to Alex. He finding family when he had stopped looking for it. Maria, with her harsh criticism and tough love, had healed his soul.

Any who knew Alex, or as all that knew him from through Manfred as Sasha, were aware he liked Russian food, well peasant food. Meat stew, cabbage soup, apple cake and beetroot soup. Meat stew, was a speciality of Maria's, Hunter's stew she called it. Flavoured with onions and paprika. She stated 'game' was best. Game was a gentile term for road kill, trapped vermin and the occasional stray. Even in Manhattan rabbits, pigeon, cat and dog, even rat made it into her meat stew. It was an awful habit he kept up in her name. She spoke of the dark days in Leningrad, when anything, including tree bark, half rotten vegetables and meat only if you were very lucky made it into the pot. Reading between the lines, the frozen corpses on the street had fed the starving during the Winter Siege. Maria had survived on the streets alone for months. She spoke of stealing, selling everything she owned, her innocence included.

Cindy came down, it was far too early, just 5:30. She ate the buckwheat porridge. It was creamy and salty. She accepted the glass of sweet black tea. Her diet now nothing like the rabbit food she ate at school. Ballerinas, prima ballerinas, could hope for the finer things in life, as of now calories kept you warm, kept you going through class, practice and street performances. She never complained at the meals cooked by Sasha or Serge, as all she could cook was a fried breakfast. Her uncle had showed her that a good breakfast was all you needed, there was takeaways, microwave, frozen or tinned meals for everything else. If in doubt go to Marks and Spencer's was Uncle Bernie's motto, ever the bachelor.

The day followed as usual, class and practice. Alex wondered why he had booked a session of head shrinking today, the fourth anniversary of Maria's death. He paced the floor in the Doc's consulting room. "I think I'm crap at coping with loss. Each death, each loss has scarred me. I never grieved for Ian. Wether thats a result of MI6 or just the fact I was so jaded by his betrayal. It was a series of losses from Alexei, Yassen, and ending with Jack's murder. I lost Misha when he upped and disappeared. Maria was quite open about her illness, I helped her make peace with her life. She had bottled so much up, the Russian way she said. Carry on, suffer and live." Alex paused. "She showed me how to move past hurt, that it shapes us, gives you strength and fortitude as well as a well of experience to temper you future hurts and disappointments. Manfred dying was totally unexpected. He complained of wind, then he collapsed and died. Serge and I did CPR until the paramedics arrived, but he was already dead." Alex blinked away the tears. "I think I'll always feel his loss. I was blessed by his acceptance, his love, his complete and utter blanket of security. He met me a my lowest and found me beautiful. He waited two years for me to grow up, get well, to emerge as a beautiful swan. He said I was a mirror of his dreams. I danced and he had visions of the man he wanted to be. When I met him he had lost his creative drive. I became his muse, he strove after his dreams again, to be a creator of beautiful dance. He was a genius. His work was only one aspect. He was the reason I'm still alive. If I had not met him, I would never have lived with Maria and Vladimir. I gained family through him. He was my saviour, my angel. Being alone now is in such bitter refief to our happiness for three years."

"You live with Serge still. You are dating, aren't you?"

"Serge is a pain in the ass. He tries to mother me, but he's crap at it. I scared the living daylights out of him but having a complete breakdown after Manfred died. I guess I started drinking because of Bernd's complete and utter dismissal of my pain when he arrived. He cut me out of my lover's funeral and memorial. I was a stupid child, my relationship with Manfred no more than fucking. I was written off as no more than a gold digging whore by Manfred's family. People I'd know for three years. Its as if by being queer I had no feelings." Alex sat down. "I told Serge about my life... my shit life. He understands abuse, neglect but real horror that was my particular speciality. I am dating... friends of Paul's. Its a stop gap. I'm not looking for love or a relationship. I need to find someone that see's all of me, the complex contradiction of broken, hurt and surviving Alex."


End file.
